


Burn the Length and Breadth of Sky

by dante_alicheery



Series: The Bastard King Universe [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Blight, Bastard King Universe, Cunnilingus, Dark!Alistair, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Forced Marriage, Hate Sex, Mildly Dubious Consent, Porn With Plot, Shotgun Wedding, Warden Queen, Wedding Night, dark au, well more of a crossbow wedding but still
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 12:54:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5375987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dante_alicheery/pseuds/dante_alicheery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Your Reverence, we are ready to be wed.' The Bastard King's voice filled the stone hall. And what a sham of a wedding it was, witnessed by only by the bride's brother and the groom's guardsmen. 'The short version, if you please. All the knot tying and hand fasting and the like will keep.'" </p><p>Fergus Cousland is forced to witness his sister's wedding to the man he failed to kill; the newly minted Corrine Theirin demands her husband consummate their marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn the Length and Breadth of Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I'm not entirely happy with it-- it feels a little overwrought in places and I'm still figuring out _this_ Alistair's character-- but here it is. So critiques are welcome in those respects. 
> 
> Warning: Mildly Dubious Consent (due to the blackmail), Explicit Sex. Though the sex doesn't begin until after the second break, so anyone who is sensitive to such things can read until there. 
> 
> But if you're here for the sex, you can skip down to that bit.

The moment Fergus was brought into the castle's chapel, his eyes flicking from his sister and her subdued stance, to the Bastard King and his mocking smile, he rushed at the man he had failed to kill.

The guards were quick to haul him back, one of them striking him in the solar plexus as they grabbed him, the blow taking the air from his lungs. Pain lanced through him, red dots dancing at the edge of his vision and a moment later his knees went out from under him. Only the hands gripping new bruises into his arms stopped him from collapsing to the floor. From far away, he heard Corrine screaming his name.

When the dots faded, he saw Corrine in the Bastard King's face, snarling like a mabari. At least she wasn't being restrained—the guards behind her looked completely stricken, not knowing how to proceed. "How dare you! You promised!"

"I promised he would live," came the cold response. "And as you see, he still breathes." He looked over at Fergus, brazen grin falling back into place as he stepped forward. He stopped just out of arm's reach, but that wouldn't stop Fergus from killing him this time. "Brother," he crowed, triumphant. "How wonderful that you've decided to join us for this joyous occasion."

Through tears of pain, Fergus looked behind the object of his hatred, then to his younger sister. Her brow was furrowed, gaze pleading. She didn't appear harmed, though her leathers were spattered in blood, but then why was she standing by their enemy's side? His gaze shifted to the Reverend Mother behind the altar. Her Reverence's eyes were unfocused, her expression resigned. And the answer clicked into place.

But no. She would never. "What have you done, Bastard?" he spat. "Blood magic? Have you found some desperate maleficar to place my sister under your spell, as you have half the blighted country?"

"Just good old fashioned extortion," the King replied. He turned toward Corrine slowly, hand cupping her face, the pads of his fingers lightly brushing her cheek. It was a show of his power, and one that made Fergus fist his hands to stop himself from fruitlessly charging again. The King's smile sharpened as Corrine's eyes closed, all she could allow as she forced herself not to flinch away. "Tell your brother of our _arrangement_ , love. Tell him how merciful your King can be. "

Fergus bared his teeth in a snarl, making as if to lunge again, only to have Corrine step between them, and out of Alistair's reach. "We've struck a deal, Fergus," she said, her voice even. "If I marry him and produce his heirs, if you agree never to threaten his rule again, His Majesty has agreed to dismiss all charges, and return the Teyrnir of Highever to you."

"Do you think I care about that? Maker, Corrine, it's not worth it if you have to—"

"I can't lose you!" she shouted. "Everyone else is gone, Fergus. Everyone." Her voice broke. "I can't lose you too!"

Fergus' face softened as he studied his sister. The façade of grim determination she'd worn since they'd closed the servant's door behind them, their mother on the other side, had completely cracked away. Her stormy blue eyes were rimmed with red, and shining with unspilt tears. His heart broke a fraction more. He'd always known she'd might have to make a political match, but Maker, to tie herself to this _monster_. "There has to be another way," he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.

"If there is, I can't see it," she replied softly. "Please, Fergus."

Seeing her desperation, Fergus closed his eyes for a brief moment, and nodded his assent.

The Bastard King clapped his hands. "Wonderful! Now, as touching as this little reunion is, we really must get things underway. But first, brother. Your oath, if you please." 

Fergus nearly snarled at him, but his gaze fell on his sister, her expression pleading for him to comply. And he had no doubt that if they didn't play along with this little charade it would end up with both of them dead, their line ended. Howe would win, easy as that. His resolve quailed. Maker, he couldn't lose her either. She was all he had left. 

The guards released his arms, and he stepped forward, Corrine allowing him to lean on her a little, and he knelt. It was a difficult job with his hands still bound behind him, his body still aching from the beating he took, but with Corrine's hands on his arm, he made it to his knees. And with his lips hovering over the Bastard King's signet ring, he pledged himself, life and service, to the man who had his family killed. 

When the words were said and answered, Fergus was hauled to his feet, his shackles removed.

He forced himself still as the Bastard King held out his hand, and as his sister slid her palm in his. He locked his jaw, biting the inside of his mouth as the man who ordered the murder of his wife and son brought his sister's hand to his lips, brushing them across her knuckles. He watched, helpless, as his sister was lead before the altar, before the statue of Andraste. Her courtly mask was now firmly in place, chin held high, the only thing to betray her turmoil the red around her eyes.

"Your Reverence, we are ready to be wed." The Bastard King's voice filled the stone hall. And what a sham of a wedding it was, witnessed by only by the bride's brother and the groom's guardsmen. "The short version, if you please. All the knot tying and hand fasting and the like will keep." 

The Reverend Mother's lip trembled, but she held out her right hand, ostensibly in blessing, but even from his vantage point Fergus could see her arm was shaking. The old woman cleared her throat once, twice, then began. "In the sight of the Maker and of his Bride, Andraste, we gather here to join King Alistair Theirin and Lady Corrine Cousland in marriage most holy." She paused, looked at the King and then to Fergus, who held his hands clamped together until his knuckles were white, and wisely decided not to ask if there were any objections. 

"Do you, Alistair of House Theirin pledge your troth of your own free will and choice? Do you vow to cleave unto this woman, forsaking all others, to give her all that you are free to give, to cherish and honor her through this life and into the next, when you meet once again at the Maker's side?"

"Aye, Mother." He looked over at said woman, his gaze appraising. "I do."

"And do you, Corrine of House Cousland, pledge your troth of your own—" and the Mother stumbled over the word, catching herself in time to be spared anything more than an annoyed glance her way. "—your own free will and choice? Do you vow to cleave unto this man, forsaking all others, to give him all that you are free to give, to cherish and honor him through this life and into the next when you meet once again at the Maker's side?"

Corrine raised her chin defiantly, and as she spoke the words that would tie her to a monster for at least as long as she lived, her voice was clear and unwavering. "Aye, Mother. I do."

And Fergus felt his heart drop, only managing at the last moment to keep it from his face.

"Then you are wed in the Maker's sight, and may what he has forged never be rent asunder." the Reverend Mother's eyes fell on the bride, a flash of pity in them before she could compose herself. "May Andraste bless and keep you, child," she murmured, just loud enough to be heard. "You may now seal the promise you've made to one another."

\---

Corrine had always known she might be given away for the good of her family. For politics. Years of watching her parents dote upon one another made her hope otherwise, of course, but every suitor she'd had had only wanted the Cousland blood in their line, not Teyrn Bryce's irascible spitfire of a daughter. She'd kept all them all at arm's length as much as she could, flirting but never committing, dancing around the topic as they stepped in through the newest waltz imported from Orlais. Defeating those that wouldn't be put off on the training grounds. But her mother didn't let up on the matchmaking, and as she grew older, she resigned herself to it, to a strategic match with Dairren Loren, who at least seemed like a good man. It was her duty, after all, and a Cousland did her duty, even when it felt like going to the gallows.

But never in her nightmares did she think she'd have to resign herself to this.

The Bastard looked every inch a king, across the dais from her in his fur-trimmed doublet, a silverite crown with an exquisitely cut garnet at its center pressed into his red-gold curls. His father's son, in visage and bearing, save for the mocking smirk on his lips. 

She straightened, determined to project her own nobility despite being dressed in only leather and light chain. The armor she'd chosen, hoping to save her brother from the dungeons. And so she had, she thought. 

The Reverend Mother said in her high, quaking voice, the words that would seal her fate, and all at once she felt the eyes of the room on her skin, waiting, anticipating. She felt his eyes on her. 

She expected him to surge forward, to thread his free hand in her hair and press his lips to hers fiercely, possessively, but he merely stepped forward into her space, waiting, one eyebrow raised in expectation. She was made to close the distance between them, stretching up a little to reach his mouth. It was a supposed to be a chaste kiss, a peck on the lips, but he pressed into her more insistently, stepping into her body, letting go of her hand to wrap it around her waist and press her to him. Before she knew it she was opening her mouth, permitting him access. Heat she didn't expect pooled in her stomach, enough to shock her out of the moment, and when she rocked backwards he was smiling that infuriating smile, and she felt her stomach clench. 

"And it is done," he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear. He threaded their fingers together again, and brought their entwined hands to his lips. His mocking eyes dared her to try and pull away, and though revulsion and… something else hit her so hard she ground her teeth together, she didn't move, and her courtly mask didn't fall. "You're mine."

She clenched her hand around his, not daring to look away. "And you're mine, your Majesty," she vowed, putting all the malice she felt into her words. 

That startled a laugh from him, and he let their hands fall, his expression turning thoughtful. "I suppose I am, at that."

A light applause broke out among the guardsmen as they turned and faced the room, husband and wife, King and Princess Consort. Maker save her.

\---

Once Fergus was sent off to his new guest quarters with a contingent of guard and everyone else was dispersed, Alistair led her to what only could have been Anora's old room. It had to have been vacant for months, since the late Queen's unfortunate _illness_ , yet appeared to have been very hastily aired out, the candles lit and the bed curtains tied back. When he'd found the time to order that done, Corrine could only guess.

They were comfortable apartments, even larger than those she had had at Highever from what she could see. The bedroom was dominated by a dark four-poster bed, hung with crimson curtains, the finials on the end of each post carved to look like a snarling mabari. Her heart ached for a moment, remembering Calenhad, her own dog, left for dead along with the rest of her family.

The whole room was like that, dark wood, highlighted with red and gold, the chairs and divan upholstered in rich velvet, the wood of the vanity and desk carved with elegant scrollwork. Everything elegant, regal, if Spartan. Corrine wondered what sort of woman Anora had been, that this was the way she decorated her rooms.

Maker, Corrine, you've never been so interested in décor before, she thought bitterly. But then, it was preferable to thinking about the warm hand wrapped around hers, and the solid looming presence at her side. Her husband. She felt panicked just thinking of it. Her husband guiding her into what was either going to be her bedroom or her prison, depending how she played her cards, and what sort of man this Bastard King proved to be.

"I can have the servants draw you a bath, if you'd like," the King said, oblivious to her inner turmoil. "And some food brought up, I think. Plotting regicide probably doesn't leave much time for the usual comforts."

She pulled away from him, hate rearing itself anew inside of her, a beast wholly separate from herself, something with snapping teeth and a eyes as crimson as the bed hangings. She could kill him now with her bare hands. She could try.

No, she told it. Fergus was more important. _Ferelden_ was more important.

And a Cousland always does her duty. 

So she tilted her chin to meet his mocking gaze. "No more than the murder of anyone else would, but I suspect you'd be more familiar with that than I, Your Majesty."

He inclined his head, amused.

"But if it is all the same to you," Corrine went on. "I'd rather get this over with."

"Get what over with?"

He was mocking her, and she blushed, shame and embarrassment both. How dare he make her say it. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

The King arched an eyebrow. He examined her, assessed her, his eyes stripping her bare, his expression serious for the first time since she'd been dragged into his study. She could feel his gaze lingering in all the places she would have slapped anyone else for glancing at, and the heat crept up to her ears. It was as if he were seeing if she were fit for such things, and a spike of indignation joined the other emotions rioting in her stomach. She kept her glare leveled at him, her jaw locked tight. Finally, his amber eyes flicked back up to hers. "Contrary to what you believe, _my lady_ , I do not take unwilling women to bed. Now, if you wish a bath or food or anything, there's a bell pull by the bed to notify the servants." And with that, he dropped her hand, and headed toward the door. Not the door that lead to the hallway, but a second one, directly across the room from her bed, which intuition told her led to his chambers. 

She hesitated, mind racing. Ferelden wouldn't rest until the line of succession was clear, and it had been one of his stipulations, even if she couldn't tell if he'd been joking or not. He could be so blighted hard to read. She had to. She didn't want to. 

His hand was on the door handle when she called out. "And have you say I'm not holding up my end of the bargain?" She sneered. "I owe you an heir. So get over here and consummate your blood-bought marriage, _Your Majesty_."

He froze, hand still on the door, and bile rose up in her throat, hot as the hatred she bore for him. Maker damn him for making her fear him not turning back around. Then the door snapped shut, with such finality that the air was taken from her lungs. "As my lady commands."

Maker, why had she done that, she wondered, as he stalked toward her once more, and for the first time, she feared for herself. He moved like a predator, and she looked at him, really looked at him. He outweighed her by at least a stone, had muscles hard won through combat, and she could see the hours on the training ground in his stance. If he wanted to he could overpower her easily.

And all that didn't matter. She'd lie back and think of Ferelden if she had to while he spent himself above her. This was the price she would willingly pay. 

"You'll have to remove those," he observed, gesturing to her armor. 

Wordlessly, she complied, nimble fingers working at buckles and straps until, piece by piece, her leathers formed a pile on the floor, leaving her in a light cotton tunic and hose. She raised an eyebrow until he did the same, shedding his jerkin and doublet, down to his breeches. 

She had seen shirtless men before. Had even woken up early so she could admire them on the practice field. But still her eyes were drawn to the muscles of his arms, to the light golden down of his broad, defined chest, highlighted by the candlelight, to the trail of dark hair at the V of his abdomen, disappearing beneath the cotton of his dark breeches. 

Quickly she forced her back to his face, where he was smirking— not the sarcasm-tinged one that seemed perpetual, but something darker, something made her throat go dry. "Like what you see then?"

That was enough to break her out of the haze that seemed to permeate her mind. She scowled, not deigning to dignify that with an answer, and followed suit, lifting her tunic above her head in a perfunctory manner. She would not tantalize or tease. She would not forget why she was here. 

His gaze fell immediately to what he could see of chest, then narrowed to what was in between them, still half-hidden by her breast band. A thin blade, sheathed in leather, hung in place by a thin chord around her neck, like a religious icon. And his guards had missed it completely.

"You didn't expect me to be entirely unarmed, I hope?" she asked. And if she couldn't help but smirk, it was in triumph at finally pulling one over on him. "But you needn't fear it will find you tonight. If you stick to our agreement." And with that, she slipped off her breast band, and he forgot entirely about the knife. For the moment. 

He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. When within arm's range, his hand came up, as if to cup her breast— and Maker, she wanted him to— but it closed instead around the blade, yanking it from its strap in one movement. She glared at him, and he grinned back. "Forgive me if I don't want to take that chance." He tossed the blade away. Where it fell, she knew not, as she was distracted by his hand cupping her breast in truth, the rough pads of his fingers seeking the rosy nub. Each stroke of his thumb over it eliciting a tingle of heat down her spine. 

She allowed it, even let her arms meet around his neck to urge him onward, but when he bent toward her, as if to kiss her, her head snapped back. "No," she demanded. "Let us not pretend at romance."

"As you wish. Though, I could make it good for you, love, if you'll let me." His voice had gone rough, and she shivered. 

"I sincerely doubt that."

He hummed low in his throat, and proceeded to demonstrate. His lips found the side of her neck, his teeth just nipping at her pulse point. 

She gasped, her skin prickling with warmth, becoming almost unbearable as one of his hands slid downward, undoing the stays of her hose, then slipping inside to brush against her mound. "What are you–-"

"I have to check if you're ready," he purred into her ear. "You don't want this to hurt, do you?"

"I don't think anything you do will make it hurt any less."

"Ah, so you're a virgin," he said, finally catching the meaning of her words. A delighted smile took over his face, and her blush deepened. The first one she'd seen on his face without a hint of bitterness or derision in it. It looked good on him. "I must admit, I wasn't expecting that."

"Some of us take our noble lineage seriously," she shot back.

"Didn't want to risk creating a bastard, did you." His voice was flat, but he didn't allow her to linger on that thought, bringing his lips back to her neck, kissing and nipping her there until her breath came in gasps, her hands tightening on his back. He took other hand from her tortured breast and lowered them onto the bed, positioning them so she was half-propped up on the pillows. And, just this once, she let him. 

"Still," he said, in between kisses. Maker, did he not need to breathe at all? "There's much one can do without… consummation. Have you never touched yourself in the dark of night? Biting your lip so no one will hear the sounds you make? Your hands sliding down your stomach, brushing through your hair to your mound, questing, excitement quickening your heart as you parted your folds…" his hands mimicked his words, sliding down her stomach, pushing her hose and smalls down until she was exposed, then threading his fingers through the dark thatch of hair he found. He followed his hands, kissing down her stomach, then the side of her hip, just once, and his finger slid into her heat, ghosting along the pearl hidden there. She gasped, hips moving of their own accord, and his dark laugh thrilled through her. "Ah, there we are."

He pressed another kiss to her skin, lower now, and murmured into her mound: "I can be a very generous lord, love. If you'll let me." 

His words sent slight vibrations through her, and she shuddered underneath him. 

"Well?"

She answered, just the barest whisper. "Yes."

And he swept his tongue through her folds, once again seeking the little nub that was the center of her pleasure, one hand on her hip to keep her from moving too far, the other tickling on the edge of her mound, winding through her curls. The end of his tongue skirted her clit, then swept back, and she gave another shuddering gasp above him, thighs clenching. She smelt so sweet, warm and heady and feminine, and it was such a pleasure teasing her. His eyes flicked upward to see her blue eyes wide with disbelief, locked on his face. 

Oh, and he was just beginning.

He introduced his fingers to her heat, first one and then a second, checking to make sure she wasn't in pain. Maker, she was wet. He swept his tongue up through her folds, tasting her, and was rewarded with a low keen. And then he renewed his assault on her, his fingers adding a new rhythm and his other hand, still on her hip, preventing her from matching it. 

He kept his eyes on her face as her head tilted back, lids fluttering shut. Her hands fisted in the crisp sheets, and she had her bottom lip firmly in between her teeth, staining them red. Another sweep of his tongue, this time over her swollen clit and his fingers questing lower, made her mouth open, and another lave elicited a breathy little cry. 

She was close, so close. "Say my name."

Her eyes fluttered open, but she couldn't quite master her expression enough to glare. "Bastard…"

He laughed, the first genuine laugh she had heard from him. "Good enough." And he dove back in, mercilessly suckling at her core until her thighs were clenching around him, her back arching hard enough that he had trouble keeping her still. He suckled her through her climax, then pushed himself off of her, taking in the sight of her undone—pale skin red and mottled, her chest rising and falling, chestnut hair spilling over the pillows.

"Maker," Corrine whispered. She'd taken care of herself before, of course, but it had never been… why had he… 

"Your Majesty will suffice," he replied, taking her out of her confused, circling thoughts. "Or Alistair, if you're feeling saucy." He pushed himself off the bed, onto his feet, his gaze laving over her as his tongue had, his amber eyes molten in a way that made heat pool again in her stomach. 

Her eyes followed him, narrowing in on his hands as he unlaced them slowly, letting her take him in, already hard and waiting. His arched eyebrow asked if she was ready, and she shifted until she was at the edge of the bed, then dared him forward with a smirk. She would not let him know how daunted she felt.

He moved into her, pushing into her heat inch by delicious inch, positioning himself just right. This time, she came up to meet him, propping herself up first on her hands, then by wrapping her hands around his shoulders, her face buried in his neck so at least she wouldn't have to see his self-satisfied expression any longer. 

He thrust, setting the rhythem and she tried her best to meet him, slowly at first to accommodate her—and it didn't hurt, not like she'd been told—then faster. The warm weighty feeling that had tortured her when his tongue was within returned rapidly, building with each thrust, that sweet heaviness spreading until she was sure she couldn't take it anymore. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him onward, and she was going to go mad with it. And then, just then, it shattered. 

She bit into his shoulder to keep from crying out, while he didn't bother to keep himself quiet, moaning at the top of his voice as her climax set his off. She felt the heat as he came, his seed spilling itself in her fertile earth. 

He stayed there for a moment, and she was at a loss, slowly letting go of him until she was laying down and they were only joined below. Their eyes met, and she had no idea what to say.

Then his expression shuttered closed, his amber eyes hard once more. He withdrew from her quickly, and gave a mocking bow. "There, my lady. Marriage consummated." And with that he turned, not bothering to robe himself or collect his clothing, and headed for the door that separated their rooms.

And just like that, the vestiges of lust evaporated, and the enormity of what happened— what she'd allowed to happen—settled on Corrine's shoulders. She shivered as she watched him go, biting her lip to keep from making a sound. She waited only until the door slammed shut before reaching over to summon a servant. She needed a bath, she decided. And wine, if she was ever going to make it to sleep.


End file.
